The voice of a seraph,

in the body

of a boy

Every last dime spent

on his vocal lessons.

Do you regret that now, sir?

No chorale could contain him,

he was born

to take the stage

Oh, knock some sense into him sir,

he’ll find no riches

in his voice, you say

‘Till the night the stage yields to him

and the thralls rush the stage,

a screaming crowd of millions

He drowns in an

ocean of recognition

you may stand on the shore, sir

His heart has congealed

from the women

from the drink

A bathroom floor,

Skin to cold tile

you’ll be the one to find him, sir

His leaves of laurel have rotted,

the crown falls by his side,

for it may not follow him to heaven